where the scraggy arms of poetry
have once carried you,
i shall
perhaps
arrive at some time or other.
- you genius!
but you dislike this soft
almost insult-like
call,
so i shall call you so simple, as in a quatrain:
- wait for me!
as parks kneel under the soft step of the fall,
and long, white wings rise from a communist darkness,
i shall tell all:
- look!
nichita is crying again for us.